Sometimes it happens like this; a small series of events lead to a memory, and then his face is before me, healthy and full, eyes dancing with mischief.
Just as quickly, his visage shrinks, pulls inward, cheeks sucking in and eyes getting larger and larger, until that blank, brown wide stare is eating me up. The look in his eyes those last months haunts me. I know the pain made them so; I know I lost him long before we buried him under a hot August sun.
***
Tomorrow, a doctor will place a large needle in my knee to drain out an excess of fluid. It hurts, my knee. I want the pain to go away, and I am almost looking forward to the sting of the steel against my flesh. A pinch and a burn and a wince, and then, perhaps, relief.
I am worried about it, a little bit scared.
I think of him in moments like that, in the chemo chair. Needle, sting, cold medicine in his veins. What was he thinking then? Did he think of us? Did he picture his own death?
Was he scared?
This last thought is the one I cannot bear.
***
Two weeks before my father died, I ran into him at our family doctor’s office. I don’t remember why I was there, now it hardly matters.
I left the examination area and saw a ghostly man, wan and thin, waiting to check in. He had a stare as long and empty as the sea. He walked with a slow, halting gait and his hands shook.
My eyes slid away, not wanting to see such pain.
A moment later the breath left my body.
I was looking at my father.
A wraith.
***
I can’t remember what month it was. It had to have been May or June.
I wore maternity clothes, though I barely showed. I was just so happy, so exuberant, I wanted to show the world the life inside me.
The phone rang as I pulled pair of banded pants over the tiny bump below my waist. It was my mother, her voice confused and fretful.
She was leaving the house for the day; my dad wasn’t doing well. She hated to leave him alone, she said, but she’d paid for the seminar and my father was forcing her out the door. Can you check on him? Will you call me right away if he doesn’t answer?
Without thinking I told her I would work from their house. I gathered my laptop and my papers and walked to my car, pushing away the pulsing fear. Not my daddy, I thought. He’s fine, he’s just having a bad day, it’s the chemo.
Not my daddy.
***
His drawn face greeted me sternly, reprimanding me for abandoning my cube for his bedside. An executive at the corporation that paid my salary, he looked askance at working remotely.
I’m fine, you should be at work.
He was fine that day, after all. Tired, but with enough energy to handle a conference call with his trademark bluster.
Later, he rested and held his belly. A call to the doctor’s office meant a run to the pharmacy. I was happy to fetch his medicine.
***
He pressed $50 into my palm.
I don’t want you paying for my prescriptions, he told me. I tried to wave him off, lying that I’d bought some other items for myself, as well.
What? he said. A magazine? Take the money. You need it more than I do.
He was so small, in the big wing chair. He wore pajamas and his scuffed slippers. The stubborn, grey strands of hair on his bald pate stood straight up in the air. Still, he smelled of soap and aftershave.
I held the money, bringing it to my nose in an automatic gesture. It smelled like him, just as my lunch money always did.
***
Later, my mother called.
Thank you, she told me. Thank you. I was just so worried.
He seemed fine to me, I told her, knowing in my heart that nothing would ever be fine again, not like it was before. Not like days on the beach, chocolate-chip muffins and Christmas mornings scented with bacon.
No, not fine.
Fine comes in so many forms for me now, but always there is the empty place in my heart, like the hole where a healthy tooth comes loose.
He said you are such a good girl, my mother told me.
He did? I asked, surprised.
Yes, she said. And you are. Such a good girl.
***
Sometimes it comes to me in strange ways. A movie released before his death. A song from my youth. A photograph that doesn’t even include his image.
Dad was alive then!
***
What can I tell my children about this man, this person who is so inextricably part of who I am? How can I bring him to life for them? Should I? Do they care about a grandfather they’ve never met? A grandfather who will always be a stack of condolence cards inside a black cardboard box?
I have hundreds of them, those notes and cards.
Your father saved my job. Your father meant the world to me. Your father was such a good man. Your father loved you.
My heart knows my father loved me. The last words we exchanged just hours before he died were “I love you.”
He said it to me all the time: I love you.
But one day, in a spring so far away that it seems like a dream, he told my mother that I was a good girl.
I wish I could hear him say that himself, just one more time.
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Bittersweet post. My kids are lucky that they got to know their grandparents. My son was watching the Daytona 500 yesterday and reminiscing about the year his grandpa won a trip to Daytona and brought home souvenirs.
“Grandpa” died three years ago at Christmas, and his last trip to visit was at least two years prior. I’m grateful my kids were old enough to remember him fondly.
Oh, my breaking heart.
Tell them. Tell them stories when his memory comes to you in the summer breeze. Tell them what he smelled like, how his hugs made you feel safe when you were a little girl, how very much you loved him.
Whisper stories about your daddy to them as you put them to sleep.
Tell them about this man who was Daddy to a little girl who grew up to be their mommy. About the way that he poured cereal for you in the morning, or read the paper, or came to your school play.
It may even make you happy, telling the stories of younger years. I know I tell the stories of my beloved grandmother and a grandfather, the one that I was lucky enough to know, whenever I can. I tell my children, even though they will never meet, because I want them to know more about love, all the love that waits for them out in the big wide world beyond our little family, and I want them to know that they come from a long line of people who cared about each other.
Oh, crap. Suddenly I’ve turned into a cornball. I guess I get like that when I think about my grandparents, and my kids. Sorry.
this is a heartsong, and it’s beautiful, Amy. beautiful and full of sorrow.
Yes, absolutely, you should share his wonderful nature . . . his essence with your children. The fact that it is such a vivid part of yourself is a real testament to his success as a father.
I recently learned that although I’m very young with very young children, my days may be numbered by a horrific and so far incurable disease that will one day manifest itself in my body. My hope, my life dream, is that my children will always realize how much they meant to me, and that they will convey that legacy to their children.
Through the pain, it is always worth remembering. Your father is clearly a huge part of who you are today (and more importantly, the good of who you are today), and for that, I can assure you, he is forever grateful, as it means that he succeeded at the highest level as a parent.
Oh, honey.
My grandfather (on my dad’s side) died in 1976, when my sister was four, about nine years before I was born. All I have of him are some photos of him at my parents’ wedding – that, and the stories my dad, my mom and even my sister tell of him. They bring him to life for me. His voice, his thick Scottish accent, his love of Scotland but his hatred of the way some Scots took themselves too seriously and single bagpipe players indoors. I know he liked humbugs – my sister remembers him giving them to her. I know that if he was still alive today, we would have been great friends. I would have got his sense of humour, and he would have got mine, ’cause the three of us, my Granddad, my Dad and me, are very much alike.
I can imagine what it was like for my family when he died of cancer. I’ve seen enough death in my family to know how they react. I imagine what my Gran went through, in those last 15 years before her own death, living on without him. But I’ve never been told. My family don’t talk of the bad times. I have been told of the kind of man he was, and how much he meant to everyone who knew him.
He lives on in all of us. In my dad, in my sister, in me, and my cousins, and his great-grandchildren. We learn the stories, we remember vicariously. He is as much a part of my life as my other grandparents are, though they lived to see my birth, they didn’t see my adolescence, but I remember them with great fondness. I could go on for pages about who they were and what I remember.
That’s what you need to do for your kids. Tell them the stories, like you’ve told us. You’ve told us many a story from your childhood. Tell your children. When the Poo, or later Shaggy, asks for a bedtime story, tell her about him. Make him the hero of his own true tale. They will grow to love him, as I love my grandfather.
What a lovely tribute. You should tell them everything you can remember, so you don’t forget.
My dad was diagnosed with lung cancer a few months ago. He has a 90% chance at a short term recovery, but also a 90% chance of being dead within three years WHEN, not if, it returns.
I hate how for the first time ever, my daddy is old. I hate that he is slow and fumbling and weak. My daddy who could do anything.
And I hate know that there is less than three years for us left. Less than three years to make memories for myself and my kids. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. But I am, at the same time, grateful that I have these three years to store up everything I can.
Your memories will become their memories. When you talk about him, you’ll bring him to life for your kids. Of course it won’t be the same, but it’s better than them not hearing about him at all.
how lucky you were to have each other
Thank you for sharing your memories of your father with us. Your words are a lasting tribute to a man who must surely have been amazing. Your children are so fortunate to be able to look back on these words and be able to embrace their grandfather through your timeless remembrances.
Beautifully written.
I know that “looking at someone else” feeling. I went to see my grandfather in the hospital when he was dying of colon cancer. I walked in and had to turn around and leave. He was so pale and thin (for him), just didn’t look right. It was right then that I realized my dad looked just like him. Immediately couldn’t handle it.
It sounds odd, but thank you for bringing back the memory. Sometimes painful memories are just as important as the happy ones.
With my MIL gravely ill this so resonates with me…beautiful…thank you.
My grandfather died when I was just barely 4 years old. I have very few memories of him but when my grandmother was alive she would always tell me how much he loved me and she would tell stories about him. Even though he really wasn’t a part of my life, he actually was, he shaped who I am today. I am sure that your children will love to hear about their grandfather, especially from you, someone who loved him dearly.
(((mrs. Chicken)))))
I don’t know how you do it. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to lose such a wonderful man. Be strong.
My grandma died when I was just over a year old– I’ve only ever known her through pictures and stories. Your kids will still have a grandpa and will still have memories of him, even if those memories aren’t their own. He’ll still be a part of the fabric of their lives.
Am bawling over here. Beautiful, beautiful post. Wish I could just hug you through the computer.
You tell them bedtimes stories about him. Stories about a real person, a brave man, your daddy. Those stories are yours too tell and one day, they’ll remember and be glad that you told them. That’s how we keep peoples memories alive, by passing it down. Sides, it’s better than telling the Cinderella story one more time.
So about 10 minutes ago Lucy looked up from her dollhouse and said “Mom, I miss Grampa and Grampy.”
The grandfathers she’s never met, but knows.
I ask myself how, but the answer is that the stories matter.
I hear and see your father in you – that is how they will know him my sweet friend. Your words, your big brown eyes, you telling them every day that you love them, and how good they are. He is IN all the parts of you
That’s beautiful, Amy.
I wondered if you were writing the first part because of what I’m going through right now… it all felt too close to see “Dad” as a wraith in the doctor’s office. (And I am seeing death around every door right now.)
I was relieved for myself when your story turned.
I agree with the other comments, you must share stories about your father with your children. They will want to know where your love and values come from. The stories will become real to them as they come to know you through thick and thin.
The only things I know about my mother’s father is that he rode trains, was a philanderer, and died when my mom was young. This explains some of my mother’s fears but leaves me with a lot of emptiness and confusion.
So you talk to your children about their Grandpa, and you help them understand what it means to you that he said you were a good girl. That means a lot.
Oh this is so haunting. I know there are 21 others ahead of me who have said the same thing, but your writing is so damned beautiful.
Thank-you for sharing this. It reminds me of a moment I had years ago in an ICU with my grandfather. He had two collapsed lungs and was on a ventilator and couldn’t speak to me. But he looked into my worried eyes and raised a finger, lit crimson by a lighted pulse monitor. And winked.
And I whispered: E.T. Heal thyself.
I miss him.